


walls and ways to hide

by dieuclaw



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Diplomacy, M/M, Oral Sex, Other, Unsafe Sex, Vorta - Freeform, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-20 14:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30006273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dieuclaw/pseuds/dieuclaw
Summary: “Perhaps I will ask Ziyal what it’s like,” Weyoun is still laughing. “Hatchingfrom an egg.”
Relationships: Dukat/Weyoun
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	walls and ways to hide

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t believe Dukat gave Weyoun one of Ziyal’s paintings. That has nothing to do with _this_ , but omg
> 
> Stay tuned for more notes from the Terok Nor office sitcom (Yes, I wrote this at work. On my phone. I am not accepting criticism at this time).
> 
> Title by kiss the anus of a black cat (2015)

  
“Do you remember your own birth?”

The Vorta asks questions like this the same way he gives orders. How are you feeling? How does the Union Endowment for the Arts select artists for the Latau Residency? Is Ziyal eligible? Yes of course, she is your daughter, my apologies. Please sign this execution order, and this one here, and remember to note the date this time, thank you. 

Dukat is playing with Weyoun’s hair, twisting it into loose little braids that unwind as fast as he can finish them. “No,” he says, without really thinking about it. There’s a pause. “I take it you remember yours.”

“One, two, three, four, five.” Weyoun shakes his head free like a wompat and turns between Dukat’s legs to face him. It’s late, which is always when Weyoun starts to wake up. Vorta are a nocturnal species by nature—Weyoun’s inability to maintain a 26-hour sleep schedule is one of his more _organic_ quirks. 

Dukat studies the Vorta’s young face in the dark. It’s easy to forget that although Weyoun’s body is less than six months old, he’s several hundred years’ Dukat’s senior. And Dukat, still, even after the Occupation, is rather wet behind the proverbial ears for a Cardassian politician. 

For example: here he is, in bed with the Dominion Ambassador. In every sense.

“I suppose hatching isn’t so different from awakening in a vat of bio-gel,” Dukat muses, “but my first memory… oh, I must’ve been two or three years old.”

“Tell me,” Weyoun says, and this _is_ an order. Heat threads through Dukat’s ribs and settles somewhere behind his breastbone, and he considers snapping the Vorta’s wrist, or one of the cartilaginous—antlers? antennae?—that sprout at his hairline. Instead, he kisses him, sinking his teeth into Weyoun’s bloodless lower lip. 

Weyoun seems to think this is a funny joke: he actually _laughs_ deep in the back of his throat and returns the kiss aggressively, pushing Dukat against the mirrored headboard. He is so delicate, so physically weak, but Dukat has been thrown across the room by a psionic wave for a reason that’s not important anymore, and his pulse ticks up as Weyoun’s long, pale tongue scrapes the back of his teeth. 

“It’s interesting to me,” Weyoun insists. “Weyoun 1’s first memory is of… submersion. I was fully conscious in the incubator. I knew exactly who I was and how I would serve the Dominion.“

It’s a basic negotiation tactic, or a form of flattery. Give up information that’s strategically useless. Dukat already knows all Vorta are engineered to the point that they may as well be synthetic, and that their iterations are grown in tubes at cloning facilities. Weyoun won’t tell Dukat anything about the pain of breathing on a ventilator, the indignity of physical therapy, or the rushing roar of death, over and over and over again.

“ It was a dream,” Dukat’s claws trace the inner side of Weyoun’s thigh. “I remember standing in the courtyard of my family’s home. The sun... shone through the clouds, and I kept trying to look at it, as a child will. The light hurt my eyes.”

“Are you sure it was a dream?” Weyoun’s smirk is audible. 

“I’m not finished,” Dukat snaps. “The light hurt my eyes, so I turned away. That’s when I realized the walls of the house were skin.”

“Skin.”

“It was—empty,” Dukat grunts in embarrassment. “The shed of a thing shaped like my house. But I was always sunblind by that point, so I could never see it properly. It was a recurring dream, I would always wake up—“ He trails off, eyes narrowed. 

“Well. That doesn’t make sense,” Weyoun shifts, straddling Dukat so he’s looking down at him. Dukat can see black bone through the hollow in his chest and the shadowy, pearlescent transparency of his flesh. 

Weyoun is, objectively, a terrifying man.

“Dreams rarely do,” Dukat says, carefully. Weyoun is also beautiful, so Dukat kisses him again. 

“But you don’t remember _hatching._ ” The Vorta can’t keep a straight face. “You must’ve been—“ He pulls away, cupping his hands together. “This small? And the Cardassian brain doesn’t finish developing until… when?”

“Thirty-five years.” 

Weyoun laughs out loud at that, bright and sharp. The carved Human masks that hang on the walls of Dukat’s—formerly Sisko’s—quarters laugh, too, and Dukat grits his teeth in shame that vanishes like smoke in the air. Of the two of them, he is the people’s leader of Cardassia. He is the one who knows what a dream is. So what if he was once an embryo?

“Perhaps I will ask Ziyal what it’s like,” Weyoun is still laughing. “Hatching _from an egg_.”

“No,” Dukat’s hand closes around Weyoun’s throat. His thumb massages the skin under Weyoun’s ear in steady circles, feeling for a pulse that isn’t there. “Ziyal was born like a… like a racing-hound pup. Bloody. Screaming.”

“Ah, of _course._ Her mother was Bajoran.” Weyoun says the word _Bajoran_ the way you’d accuse someone of molesting livestock, but with a certain fondness. This is what Weyoun wants: a list of real things that bother Skrain Dukat, to file away and keep for later. Vorta don’t dream. “You witnessed this?”

That had been a strange morning. Dukat breathes in through his nose, tasting the null flavor of Weyoun’s sweat, the station dust, the spring wine on his own breath. Weyoun has hooked a leg over his thigh and the Vorta is positively _dripping_ wet. Dukat’s grip on his neck tightens, ever so slightly. 

“Ziyal was born in Ashalla, at my residence there.” He sighs again, reconsidering the order of events. “It was a difficult pregnancy. The Bajoran womb was not meant to carry a Cardassian child, but Naprem wanted… well, I would have given her all of Bajor, if she’d only asked. She wanted to keep the baby.”

Weyoun can’t quite resist the urge to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t say a word about Dukat’s tendency to over-promise where his mistresses are concerned. Right now, it’s working in Weyoun’s favor.

“But you were there?” Weyoun’s voice comes out as a strained whisper. He leans into Dukat’s hold on his neck, grinding against the ridge of scales along the Cardassian’s sartorius muscle. Ziyal: Ziyal is a liability, Dukat is so _stupid_ about her. He, Weyoun, knew that, but—maybe she should take the residency this year. Or Weyoun will figure it out. Either/or.

He’ll call the Union Endowment for the Arts tomorrow.

Dukat shudders. “There was so much blood.”

As if he’d been the one giving birth. Weyoun pries Dukat’s claws from his throat one by one, interlacing their fingers. Dukat has an odd expression on his face, distant—he doesn’t protest at all when Weyoun slips free entirely, or when he nudges Dukat’s legs apart. 

“You aren’t—?” Dukat looks down at him, on his belly now, hands on Dukat’s hips. For the fifth life of him, Weyoun has no idea what he’s asking, so he waits with his mouth centimeters from Dukat’s ajan.

“You’re sterile,” Dukat tries again. 

This time he can’t help it. Weyoun’s shriek is ear-splitting, a keening, crackling monotone dampened only because he’s buried his head in Dukat’s abdomen. It’s not even a laugh, really—it’s the same horrible noise he makes to echolocate something he’s dropped on the floor. 

“Dukat,” Weyoun is _electric_ with mirth, “Vorta reproductive anatomy is vestigial. I haven’t been— _limping_ to medbay for a contraceptive every morning.”

Dukat grimaces. “I didn’t think it was funny.”

Weyoun snorts again, to himself, but then he meets Dukat’s eyes as it clicks into place, all at once—Dukat isn’t worried about _that._

“Oh,” Weyoun sighs, and now it’s a fight to keep smiling. “ _Dukat_ , it’s alright. The Founders were wise to eliminate any desire for offspring from my genetic code.”

“I see.”

“You’re upset.” Weyoun can hear Dukat’s breath catch as he licks the Cardassian’s ajan, pressing his tongue firmly between new silk-smooth scales. He tastes nothing.

“I—“ Dukat huffs. “One’s family—children, especially—is… _are_ a core… a core value, for a Cardassian. It’s difficult for me to imagine. If I were you, I—“

“Thank goodness you’re not,” Weyoun flits his tongue around the base of Dukat’s eversion, lavender on flushed blue. “I am the Fifth of my line, you needn’t be the Sixth. Do not question the Founders _in bed.”_

“Very well.” Dukat shivers appreciatively. He is always, _always_ so _pliant_ with a bottle of spring wine and a little attention. “As long as you’re… _mm—_ happy.”

“I serve the Founders,” Weyoun murmurs. Dukat knots his claws in the Vorta’s hair and groans as Weyoun’s tongue slips into him. Fucking Weyoun’s mouth is an exercise in plausible deniability. 

“Be _quiet,_ Weyoun.”

Weyoun’s answer to that is to press his tongue deeper even as Dukat’s prUt scrapes the back of his throat. He moans, annoyed that he can’t breathe, but Dukat jerks his hips again, and it hurts, and he gags, and curls his tongue in a way that makes Dukat gasp. The Cardassian reproductive organ is bony, erect by default, and sheathed in blood vessels Weyoun knows will break on his teeth. 

According to Dukat, this is a Bajoran sexual act. Cardassians don’t degrade themselves, penetrative oral sex isn’t _a thing,_ culturally. Weyoun isn’t so sure about that, considering—

—Dukat is riding him like an Orion slave girl, really. Fast and shallow. Weyoun’s mouth fills with his own (venomous) saliva, whitish, oily, smeared on his chin and the sheets and inside Dukat. He gags again as Dukat tenses and comes almost without warning, and all Weyoun can hear is the wet pulse of his own throat as he swallows a cocktail of venom and Cardassian fluids and regurgitated wine.

He licks Dukat clean, wordlessly, trying to ignore the burning in his groin, the way his hands tremble as he wanders to the replicator for an antitoxin hypo. Just to be safe.

Dukat’s eyes bore into his back like a twin-barrel disruptor. Meru’s shoulders were not so broad. Only girls have narrow hips like his. Weyoun hears wisps of every thought sparking and fizzling in Dukat’s reptile brain—yes, all Vorta are vaguely telepathic—diplomacy, remember?—and the picture that erupts of Dukat fucking him over the table in the wardroom nearly stops him in his tracks. 

Or he could be Meru, or Nerys, or Athra. Funny how a man’s fantasies can be so interchangeable. That’s working in Weyoun’s favor, too. 

“More wine?” Dukat asks, tone striking the odd intersection of magnanimous _and_ apologetic. And half-asleep. Weyoun shakes his head.

“Antitoxin D-11-Barr. Water, room temperature. Water, sparkling, room temperature.” Two glasses and a hypospray materialize in the replicator bay and Weyoun returns to bed, carrying the hypo in his mouth. 

Dukat is a shadow on the wall. 

“We are taking the Tyra system tomorrow,” Weyoun says, all business as he presses the hypo to the dip below where Dukat’s neck ridge meets his jaw, “and Damar told me the initial report from Engineering on the minefield will be ready by 1300.”

“Damar told you?” Dukat’s grin is all teeth. He drinks the still water. “Good, you’re getting along.”

Weyoun clinks their glasses as he settles next to him. “One big happy family.”

Dukat yawns. “I like this, you know,” he says, and one hand falls between Weyoun’s legs, as an afterthought. “The new Terok Nor.” And then: “You’re so _wet._ Are you _sure_ what you’ve got here is vestigial?” 

“Mm,” Weyoun likes sparkling water because Odo likes sparkling water. “Dukat?”

“Yes?”

“Good night.”

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think that Dukat kept all of Sisko’s stuff untouched on Terok Nor because he’s 1) obsessed 2) superstitious.
> 
> Thanks for reading ! I love comments ! ^__^/


End file.
